Wibbly Wobbly Pathways of Time
by Sherlockedmyheart
Summary: Once, 29 years ago, a frightened and lonely little boy met a Strange Doctor in his Father's wine cellar and made sure he never left. The two find themselves in an unlikely apprenticeship and friendship. Then, one day the Doctor disappeared and 19 years later shows up in the living room of 221B Baker Street. Slight Johnlock, Eventual Mystrade and Captain Jack attracted to everyo
1. Chapter 1

Wibbly Wobbly Pathways of Time

**Chapter 1**

"But it's the solar system!" The Doctor's voice hitched, it was clear the man was inches away from strangling Sherlock with his own bloody scarf.

But the detective remained unimpressed, he rolled his eyes. His gaze flittering from the TARDIS console to John, the soldier huddled on the padded bench, his eyes wide as he stared at the flashing lights and looked like he was about to faint any second.

Sherlock turned his attention back to the Doctor, a devilish grin slowly spread across his face but he drawled out the one word that he knew would send the Doctor into a frenzy of brilliance fuelled by anger.

"_Boring!_"

* * *

_**Three Hours Previously**_

"_Oui, Oui, monsieur ... je vous assure que je vais aborder en détail cette problème lors de notre prochaine réunion. Bon après-midi, monsieur_."

Mycroft put the phone down with a little more force than he intended. For some reason, Mycroft found himself oddly irritable. He took his glasses off his nose and placed them in his shirt pocket; he pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. Enjoying the silence that washed over him as relaxed into the upholstered green leather. At last he had some peace and quiet.

Then someone knocked on the door.

"Mr. Holmes? I'm sorry to disturb you but The Captain is here to see you, sir. He says it is urgent." Anthea poked her head around the door, half expecting a book to be thrown her way for daring to disturb her employer, if his mood when she greeted him in the morning was anything to go by.

Mycroft sighed heavily and reluctantly sat up, adjusting his posture and trying to find the will to deal with Captain Jack Harkness. "Very well, show him in."

Anthea nodded and went to close the door, but 'The Captain' brushed past her and burst into the room, the navy military coat billowing behind him. As he walked in, his hand, rather not so innocently brushed against Anthea's arse and he winked playfully at her.

Anthea, well used to the erratic and eccentric behaviour of all the men in Mycroft's life, simply raised an eyebrow at him before closing the door, covering the fact that she was more than slightly pleased she got attention from him with a scowl.

The two men stared at each other as Captain Jack Harkness stood in front of Mycroft's desk, looking exactly the same as he remembered him. Tall, muscular and ridiculously handsome. The man didn't look a day older. Damn him. Why did he have to stay perfect for the rest of eternity and Mycroft had to grow old and get fat and die?

Jack looked at Mycroft thinking how well he had aged, better than the gangly, young man barely out of adolescence that had just accepted a high profile position in the British Government. He looked refined, and, at that moment, oddly adorable since he looked about three seconds away from reaching the end of his tether. He looked thin. Thinner than he should be. Jack knew something had happened to a little brother – Shylock – no, Sherlock a few years back so perhaps that had been the cause of his new, almost skeletal look.

Although, in all honestly, Jack had to admit that he looked tantalisingly delicious with his pale blue shirt, sleeves rolled up and the collar undone, showing a ridiculous amount of deliciously pale skin.

"You've lost weight."

Jack spoke first, breaking the silence in the room that was very quickly filling up with testosterone. Mycroft bristled, who was Jack to comment on his weight? Christ, did her majesty have an opinion on the bloody subject? Everyone else seemed to.

"That is none of your –"

"You look good. Better than I've seen you in a long time. Have you found someone?" Jack asked, cocking his head slightly, a genuine smile on his face.

"That information has nothing to do with you." Mycroft spoke through gritted teeth.

"Oh." Jack sounded disappointed. "You haven't met anyone else."

Mycroft frown, why would he sound disappointed? '_Well, there was no one else.' _Mycroft thought somewhat bitterly to himself. Whether it was his pride or simply the British stiff upper lip that dominated his life, which stopped him from saying it aloud, he wasn't sure, but he knew those words would never leave his lips.

"But you have." Mycroft's voice was strained as he talked. "A…pilot? Yes, a pilot. Is that why you came here? To gloat?"

"No. I did not come here to show off. I wanted to talk to you."

"Oh, you always want to talk don't you? You could never keep silent for long could you, Jack? You always liked the sound of your voice too much." He snapped, a little harshly.

Jack smiled crookedly, trying not to let Mycroft's current mood get to him. "That brother of yours is wearing off on you. You hang around sociopaths too much."

"I do not 'hang around' with any one, thank you, Captain Harkness." Mycroft prickled at the Americanism Jack used, he had certainly not missed that.

Jack finally lowered himself into the leather wing-backed arm the other side of Mycroft's desk and placed his hands in his lap. He smiled and spoke with a sad calmness that felt like velvet to Mycroft's ears.

"You know I always much preferred the sound of your voice, Mycroft." Jack said suddenly. He rolled his 'r' as he spoke. "Especially when I made you scream."

Mycroft felt his cheeks burn indignantly and internally scolded himself for his adolescent behaviour. They were just words; words that seemed ridiculously seductive coming from the beautiful talented mouth of that – no. Oh, dear God no.

Mycroft's blush deepened as he realised what he was thinking were having a very unwanted effect on him. Jack simply smiled at him from across the desk.

"If it helps, I'm thinking it too."

"Why are you here Jack – Mr – Captain Harkness?" Mycroft stuttered as he spoke and corrected himself a shameful amount of times because he was becoming ridiculously flustered and very quickly getting very annoyed.

"I love it when you say my name." The American grinned cheekily. "You never know, when this is all done perhaps you and I could give it another shot." He said jovially but there was no denying the underlining hope in his voice.

If Mycroft was had been feeling diplomatic and kind he probably would have nodded politely or even agreed but Mycroft was not feeling diplomatic and certainly not kind, so he twisted his face into the worst sneer he could manage and spat,

"If by 'it' you are referring to the sexual encounters you and I had, because I can assure you, Captain Harkness, that 'it' was certainly not a relationship then I shall have to sorely disappoint you. I am married to my work and nothing will ever change that. Oh, and I will ask you not to sexually assault my staff or I might actually let Anthea kill you. I'm sure she would find the experience extremely therapeutic and once she'd start I'd fear she would not be able to stop. Now, _Jack, _what business has brought you here?"

Jack schooled his expression and smiled thinly. "I just stopped by to say that the Doctor has entered 221B Baker Street."

Then Mycroft swore.


	2. Chapter 2

_Three Hours Previously_

**_Brrrng!_**

"John! John, there someone is at the door!"

**_Brrrng!_**

"_John!" _Sherlock looked up from John's laptop screen, his face softened from the hard scowl when he then realised, "Oh…you went out." Sherlock turned his attention back to the screen.

**_Brrrng!_**

"Bugger off!"

Sherlock shouted down the stairs, annoyed with the persistence of whoever was at the door. Thankfully, it seemed to do the trick as the door bell ringing ceased. He was still clad in blue silk pyjamas and a turquoise dressing down, John would undoubtedly lecture him on the fact that he was still in pyjamas…at three o'clock in the afternoon, having only just got up at two hours previously. Sherlock 'hmm'ed contentedly and continued reading the article on Samurai swords.

Then, the TARDIS materialised…

…in the living room was 221B Baker Street.

Panic filled Sherlock's chest.

His fingers clung onto the desk, his knuckles turning an alarming shade of white.

No. He would not turn around.

It couldn't be him, it couldn't. It couldn't. It couldn't. It couldn't. It couldn't.

Sherlock gritted his teeth, determined not to fall into the trap. Not again. Never again.

The Doctor was gone. Long gone and he wasn't coming back. He was never coming back.

"Hello, Sherlock. I rang the doorbell but you told me to bugger off, so I thought I'd come just come in any way." A hauntingly familiar voice said cheerfully behind him.

Sherlock hunched over further, blatantly ignoring the Doctor behind him. He then heard the Doctor sigh and step forward, the TARDIS door closing behind him. What he didn't expect however, was the Doctor to place his hand on his shoulder.

Sherlock jumped as if he'd been scalded by burning water. He leapt out of the chair and stared venomously at the Doctor. It was then Quicksilver eyes met Chocolate. It was Chocolate that morphed into deep sadness when he saw Sherlock's face; Quicksilver remained unreadable, almost wholly detached.

"Oh…" The Doctor whispered. "I suppose I got it a bit wrong didn't I? You're a lot older than I expected."

It was then Sherlock changed his expression, to one of anger. "Nineteen years older, _Doctor_. I waited for you and you didn't come back."

"I told you it would be difficult for me to come back." The Doctor cast his eyes downwards, ashamed, bashful, self-conscious; becoming all the things he'd drilled out of Sherlock and…Sherlock didn't know how to react.

He felt as if he was seven again. Hailstones viciously pounding at the window, whilst he lay there in pitch darkness, listening to Mummy lock herself in her room whilst Father banged angrily at her door. He felt that same fear, loathing and loneliness as he did that night.

In nineteen years the Doctor hadn't changed one bit. He was still the man Sherlock remembered. _His Doctor_. Jesus…he was wearing the same clothes he wore that day…the day he left.

The brown pinstriped suit, crisp white shirt, long camel brown coat down to his ankles and the brown silk paisley patterned tie that Sherlock had bought him. His hair still as wild and stuck up as it was that morning. Sherlock could almost feel the texture of the Doctor's hair underneath his fingers.

He shook the image out of his head, now was not the time for silly romantic nostalgia. Sherlock reigned in his expression, the cold facade had returned even if the confusion burned inside him.

"Why are you here, Doctor?"

"Can't I visit, an old friend?" The Doctor retorted, a little too quickly.

"Why wait nineteen years to do so?"

"Humans can wait decades until they see a friend again, that happens." The Doctor tried for nonchalance but what Sherlock saw was more along the lines of nervousness.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. He may have been an expert at reading humans but Time Lords were a whole new league and in all honesty…he was more than a little bit out of practise. Nothing. Bloody hell, he had nothing. He growled in frustration. He knew he wouldn't get the truth out of the Doctor any time soon, so he would probably just have to wait.

Sherlock waved his hand in the vicinity of John's armchair to indicate the Doctor could sit. Sherlock threw himself into his armchair and pulled his knees up to his chest, peeking over he knees at the Doctor, who was shifting in John's chair to make himself comfortable.

Neither of them spoke for a long while, Sherlock content to just stare at the man who had so openly and accidently enhanced and ruined his life. How could he be there, sitting across from him, in the living room of 221B?

"I must say, I love what you've done with your flat. It is very nice, gothic but modern. Very you if I do say so." The Doctor glanced around, then he saw John's mug and picked it up. "You're not living alone." He turned it in his hands gently. "Hm…a soldier…are you two…?" The Doctor let the question hang in the air, but indicated what he meant with a hopeful smile and raise of an eyebrow.

Sherlock didn't answer him.

"A man?" The Doctor continued regardless, determined to get something out of him.

Sherlock still said nothing.

"What's his name?"

Nothing.

"Is he nice?"

Nada. Zilch.

The Doctor sighed, exasperated. "What will it take for you to talk to me? You know you weren't this stubborn when you were nine!"

"You left me. In that house. With them…those people!" Sherlock hissed venomously into his knees.

The Doctor's expression softened. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock but what I told you was the truth. You simply couldn't come with me. You had your own life to lead."

Sherlock closed his eyes and gritted his teeth as he spoke, taking all his effort not to shout. "I kissed you and you ran away."

"Well…if it helps you weren't the only one. Good old Queen Bessie, Cleopatra and Jane Austen all had a bone to pick with me. Who do you think Mr. Darcy was based on? Jane was by far the kindest out of those three. Bess tried to shoot me with archers…although she wasn't exactly the 'Virgin Queen' after my little…uh…visit. And! And, and! Cleopatra threw an asp at me…well…we did slightly more than kiss as well." The Doctor shook his head to pull himself out of his monologue. "Do you still like the solar system? I remember you used to love it…I'm sorry I never took you up there to see it."

"No." He spat before slowly lowered his legs to the floor, his hands slowly spreading out under they reached the edge of the arm, fingers gripping it tightly. Sherlock locked eyes with the Doctor and opened his mouth to speak.

"I –"

"What the fuck?! _Sherlock!_ Why is there a police box in my living room?!" John's voice boomed from behind the TARDIS, cutting Sherlock off.

"Uh…sorry." The Doctor stood up; he poked his head around the TARDIS. John stood open mouthed; looking dumbfounded staring at the Blue Box, still carrying six carrier bags. "That's mine. Do you want a hand with those?" The Doctor offered.

John finally realised that someone was talking to him and stared at the Doctor. "Uh…no, thanks. I'm alright. I just…hm. Okay." John muttered to himself as he shuffled into the kitchen and dumped the carrier bags on the floor just in front of the fridge and he returned back to the kitchen.

"Case?" John asked, plonking himself down on the sofa.

"No." The Doctor shook his head. "No, I'm – uh – I'm an old friend."

John raised his eyebrow and it took everything in Sherlock not to smirk. But the Doctor continued regardless. "I take it you're his flatmate?"

John nodded. "Doctor John Watson. Nice to meet you."

"You're a Doctor?" The Doctor asked, his face lit up. His eyes suddenly sparkling.

"Yes…have been now for a long time. And you are…?"

"Uh…I…um…" The Doctor's face flushed; there was a panicky edge to his voice.

"This is John Smith." Sherlock said steadily, if not somewhat bitterly. "Doctor John Smith."


	3. Chapter 3

_**Twenty-nine Years Ago**_

_Another flash of lightning illuminated the little boy's bedroom soon after came the almighty bang. Sherlock flinched involuntarily and scowled because of it. The rain attacked his window with an unrelenting viciousness._

_He wasn't afraid of storms._

_He wasn't afraid of storms._

**_He was not afraid of storms!_**

_Just like he wasn't afraid of the monsters in the wine cellar, Griffiths the Gardener and Father when he was drinking. __He curled up into a ball, covering his ears, clutching at his curls, whimpering softly to himself. He wanted Mycroft. Why did Mycroft have to go to school and __leave him? Why couldn't he go with him?_

"_Violet?! Violet what have you done –" Father shouted._

_Oh no…it was going one of those nights. He was drunk…again. He didn't hear Mummy's reply, only her quick footsteps as she ran up the stairs and scuttled across the hallway to her bedroom._

_Moments later her door slammed and the lock clicked. From past experience he knew she wouldn't come out for another two, possibly three days. Then he heard Father. He heard him stumble up the stairs, shouting obscenities and curse his family. He thundered down the hallway and Sherlock could just picture his meaty fists pounded hell out of Mummy's bedroom door._

_For as long as Sherlock could remember Mummy and Father had slept in separate beds in separate rooms, they practically led different lives. He knew the routine; he knew it as well as the pair of them. It was well constructed play, an expertly choreographed dance. It was pathetic really._

_Sherlock knew he wouldn't sleep that night. Not that he ever really did on the nights Father was drunk, which was becoming more and more frequent. He'd just wait until Father passed out so that he could crawl into Mycroft's bed._

_Mycroft…_

_He knew he would be able to sleep if Mycroft were home. If Mycroft were home he could curl up with him in bed and fall asleep listening to his older brother's heartbeat as Mycroft ran his fingers soothingly through his hair. _

_Sherlock closed his eyes tighter, almost painfully so as the memories bombarded him almost as relentlessly as the rain on his window. He wanted Mycroft! Mycroft! **Mycroft!**_

"_But he's not here!" Sherlock screamed into the darkness, digging his fingernails into his scalp._

_Then the lightning struck, filling the room with an impossible brightness. Sherlock threw the covers over his head in a feeble attempt to protect himself. He was temporarily blinded by the mass of light. And by God it hurt. It felt as if the inside of his skull was burning._

_The light disappeared almost as quickly as it appeared and Sherlock was plunged into darkness. He panted like a dog, trying to keep his panic under control. Panicking wouldn't do him any good._

_Slowly, he pulled the duvet down and peered out from underneath it. The room was in complete darkness and an uneasy calm, as if it never happened. He put a tentative foot on the wooden floorboard and got out of the bed cautiously._

_He moved slowly towards the window, deliberately missing the floorboards he knew would creak. _

**Thud!**

_Sherlock dropped to the floor, covering the back of his head with his hands, daring not to breathe for a ridiculous amount of time, until it dawned on him that his were going to explode if he didn't exhale._

_He glanced up and frowned. It was a branch. A bloody tree branch from the bloody tree outside his bloody window. He scowled at his foolishness as he pulled himself up off the floor. _

**Thud!**

_Sherlock spun round, towards his bedroom door. The noise was new. It was different. And it was radiating from the hallway. It sounded heavy, but it didn't sound like Father, there was no shouting._

**Thud!**

_Was it one of the servants? But the servants would never be up at this hour. They wouldn't dare with Father on the prowl._

**Thud!**

_Could it be some kind of animal? It wasn't a pet. Father didn't allow them to have pets in the house. It wasn't a stray…was it?_

**THUD!**

_The last one made him jump. It was louder than the ones before, more desperate. What would Mycroft do? Mycroft certainly wouldn't leave the noise a mystery. He should investigate._

_The thought of discovering what the source of the noise was sent a shiver down his spine. But in a good way. Like the time when he climbed to the highest branch on the oak tree outside his bedroom._

_It felt fantastic, amazing even. He wanted to feel it again. Because when he felt like that, the hurt disappeared. _

_He crept towards the door, quicker this time and with a deliberate gentleness he opened the door. He winced when it creaked slightly, but only let it open so it was slightly ajar and squeezed through. _

_He crawled on his hands and knees to the banisters, peering down to the door underneath the staircase. The door to the wine cellar. The door was open and there was a light shining from it. A blue light._

_He turned his head towards his Father's study, where Father's distinct snoring penetrated the heavy oak door. So it wasn't Father. Mother hadn't unlocked her bedroom door otherwise he would've heard it. So…who was it?_

_Curiosity overwhelmed him and before a logical argument could present itself to the forefront of his mind; he was already down the stairs and standing at the foot of the stairway to the wine cellar. _

_He stared down into the darkness, well, not so much darkness as the blue light illuminated the bottom of the stairs._

**Buzzzz…**

_The sound was low, almost inaudible and Sherlock had to strain to hear it but hear it he did. Fear travelled through his veins, filling him with a petrifying coldness but it felt so good._

_He moved forward and peered down the steps. His eyes adjusted to it quickly and he gasped when he saw a shadow illuminated in the light. He knew he probably should have called for help but he so desperately wanted this adventure, he didn't want them to take this piece of excitement away from him._

_He descended barefoot down the stone steps. The moisture on the cold stone felt odd against the balls of his feet. He crouched low, using his hands to work safely down the precarious flagstones. _

_Once he reached the bottom, he knelt down and gaped when he saw the source of the light. It was man. A strange man. He was kneeling down between some of the crates of wine._

"_Come on…" He cooed softly. "Come on…come to me. Come to the Doctor. Oh come on now, don't be shy…I won't hurt you. Come on, come here you stupid little bugger." _

_Sherlock moved closer, he looked like he was carrying some strange form of torch which was producing the luminous blue light. He tried to get a closer look at the man himself but all he could see from his current position was the man's back. _

_The man was crouched down; he rocked gently on his heels until he flopped onto his backside and crossed his legs. "I am literally not moving until you come out of your hiding place."_

_What was this man after? And what was he doing in Sherlock's house? Sherlock resisted the urge to confront the man as he knew it probably wouldn't be the greatest of ideas…but he didn't seem like a burglar…_

"_Who are you?" Sherlock called out, despite his better judgement. He wished he had some kind of a weapon with him._

_The man spun round, looking shocked. His eyes darted around the room, trying to look for Sherlock. Sherlock pulled himself closer to the crate, in order not to be spotted just quite yet._

"_I am the Doctor." The man said calmly, twisting around to face Sherlock's general vicinity._

"_Doctor who?" Sherlock asked, keeping his voice as even as possible. _

"_Just…the Doctor. What's your name?"_

"_Why are you in my house?" Sherlock dared to move slightly, the man didn't sound as dangerous as he first thought._

"_Ah, now that, is a very good question. I am in your house because I've lost my Weevil. I don't suppose you've seen it anywhere have you?"_

"_A Weevil?" Sherlock repeated. "Isn't that an insect? Why would you be looking for an insect? And in my Father's wine cellar. I'm sorry but I don't believe you, sir."_

"_Well…" The Doctor said. "That is by far the nicest way of being told I'm a liar I've ever heard. Thank you." He said brightly. "Can I ask your name?"_

_Sherlock remained silent. He knew for sure he couldn't tell this man his name. "You can," Sherlock replied. "But I'm afraid I won't answer."_

_The Strange Doctor laughed. He actually laughed and to Sherlock's amazement he found himself suppressing a smile._

"_But that's not really fair. I told you my name." The Doctor pouted good naturedly._

_Sherlock peeked around the crate at the Strange Doctor. "My name is Sherlock Holmes."_

_The Strange Doctor frowned. "What year is it?"_

"_1983."_

"_How old are you, Sherlock?"_

"_Seven. I'm seven." Sherlock emerged from the crate._

"_Oh…" The Doctor smiled. "That's good. I take it you were named after someone?"_

_Sherlock nodded. "My great, great, granduncle. I always wanted to meet him."_

_The side of the Doctor's mouth twitched into a smile. _

**Thud!**

_Sherlock scampered over to the Doctor's side, grabbing onto his arm._

"_Sherlock…?" The Doctor whispered down to the little boy, slipping his hand into Sherlock's much smaller one. "Do you believe in monsters?"_

_Sherlock stared wide eyed into the shadows and shook his head. "My brother, Mycroft, says the only monster in this house is Father."_

_The Doctor did a double take at the small form next to him. "Right…I'll address that issue later. But for the minute I need to concentrate on my Weevil."_

"_Your Weevil but a Weevil is an insect. I read it in one of Mycroft's entomology books."_

"_Yes, well, I'm not strictly on about an insect. This is a little big bigger than an insect and more importantly, if you try to touch it, it **will **bite your face off."_

_Sherlock paled at the Doctor's words, his hands went out to clasp the Doctor's jacket as the Doctor began to coo again._

"_Here Janet, Janet, Janet. Come on Janet, Janet, Janet. Here Janet, Janet, Janet." _

"_You called a monster Janet?" Sherlock stared at the Doctor in disbelief._

"_Yeah well, it was a bit better than big evil scary monster-thingy. I thought Janet had a nicer ring to it."_

"_Well I don't think it's working." Sherlock whispered, scanning the room quickly._

"_Hm…I think you're right. I don't suppose you have a piece of meat do you?"_

_Sherlock merely raised his eyebrow. "Doctor. I am in my pyjamas. I am supposed to be in bed but instead I am catching some kind of monster with you. What is the likelihood that I am going to carry something edible around with me, especially in my pyjamas?"_

"_I carry a tangerine in mine." He huffed. _

"_Well, it's all very well drawing her in but what exactly are you going to do if she comes to you?"_

"_Ah ha ha!" The Doctor smiled triumphantly. "I have a secret weapon in my arsenal!"_

"_Good because you're going to probably have to use it now!" Sherlock stammered out as Janet emerged from the shadows._

_The ugly, fearsome creature spat at them as it growled and bared its teeth, inching close towards them with its claws. She hissed and her powerful jaws snapped at the air around her. She was about the size of a fully grown small dog but it didn't mean she was any less terrifying. _

_The Doctor shuffled back. "Sherlock." He whispered in the little boy's ear. "I need you to be brave for me, can you do that?"_

_Sherlock didn't know why but he felt the overwhelming urge to please this Strange man. He nodded quickly and he could practically feel the Doctor smile._

"_Good boy, I need you to stay here. I'm going to catch Janet. But whatever you do, don't move. Do you understand?" _

_Sherlock nodded and had to suppress a whimper as the Doctor's hand slipped from his and he disappeared from his side. Janet inched closer, clawing at the flagstones and baring her hideous teeth at Sherlock. He wanted to run, he wanted to scream, oh God he wanted Mycroft._

_Then from nowhere, the Doctor leapt out of the shadows, grabbed Janet by the crook of her neck and stuffed her into a basket. A pet basket. The Doctor beamed at him triumphantly._

"_Excellent work! I couldn't have done it without you! It was nice meeting you Sherlock, I'll send your love to your namesake, bye-bye!"_

_The Doctor turned to leave but Sherlock launched at him and grabbed his hand. "Wait! You can't simply leave!"_

"_Uh…yes I can…and I will."_

"_If you go I will scream and wake the whole household up."_

_The Doctor narrowed his eyes. "No you won't." _

_Sherlock stared at the Strange man before him, a twinkle in his eyes. He opened his mouth and took a deep breath. The Doctor moved quickly, covering Sherlock's mouth with his hand._

"_Okay, okay. I believe you. Don't scream. You can tell you're related to him because he was a bloody pain in the arse too. Look, I'll make a deal with you. I just need to put Janet away and I promise I'll come back, okay?"_

_Sherlock nodded and the Doctor slowly lowered his hand. "Good boy. I'll be back in a minute."_

_Sherlock watched as the Doctor disappeared into the shadows and waited. And waited. And waited. Then, when he was sure the Doctor had lied, he pulled out the Doctor's weird blue torch from his pyjama pocket and smiled triumphantly. That would ensure the Doctor would come back. _


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

John frowned, trying to recall if he ever heard the name come up in conversation. A few seconds later it became apparent that he hadn't by the rather awkward smile on his face but John nodded briefly, out of politeness more than anything else. The Doctor turned back to Sherlock, a bright twinkle in his eyes but Sherlock remained unmoved.

"A Doctor. You found a Doctor. Your very own Doctor." The Doctor whispered before returning the volume of his voice to normal and talking back to John. "Not just a Doctor. An army Doctor. What regiment?"

"Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers." John said slowly, trying desperately to escape the feeling of _daja vou_.

Even those Doctor Smith's eyes were a different colour to Sherlock's there was no doubting the similarity between the two; the same hunger for knowledge and yet the same all knowing expression, completely assured of themselves. But the longer John looked at this mysterious Doctor Smith, he realised something, Doctor Smith looked old in his eyes. He looked like a man trying to hide his pain. John only knew because he had seen _that look_ so many times before, just before –

"Afghanistan?" The Doctor asked, raising an eyebrow. Unconsciously or perhaps consciously, the little paranoid voice said, interrupting John's train of thought

John narrowed his eyes, trying, somewhat in vain, to come up with a rational explanation to why he seemed to be having exactly the same conversation with this man as he did when he first met Sherlock.

"Afghanistan. How did you -?"

"Seen a lot of trouble I bet?" The Doctor smiled at him mischievously and John shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Uh…yeah. Look, I don't mean to sound impolite, Mr. Smith –"

"Oh, please, call me the Doctor." The Doctor said with absolutely no irony.

John stared blankly at him for a minute, then shook his head and continued, "My apologises, but _Doctor, _why are you here?"

"Yes," Sherlock pitched in, leaning forward in his seat. "Exactly why are you here, _Doctor?_" The venom in Sherlock's voice was unmissable.

The Doctor took a deep breath in and said, "May I use your bathroom?"

"Uh…yeah." John answered. "It's just upstairs."

The Doctor flashed him a smile before, launching out of the chair, manoeuvring slightly awkwardly around the TARDIS and pounding up the stairs. John stared at Sherlock questioningly. "Are you unwell?"

Sherlock frowned at John. "No, of course not. I'm perfectly well."

"Then what is a Doctor or as he seems to like to call himself, 'The Doctor' doing in our flat?"

"I don't know." Sherlock answered honestly, turning away from John's probing gaze, instead favouring to look at the fireplace.

"What do you mean you 'don't know'? He said he was an old friend and you told me you didn't have friends." John spoke through gritted teeth.

He wasn't angry over that fact that Sherlock had never told him about his 'old friend', alright, perhaps he was but he knew it was perfectly normal for Sherlock to reveal absolutely sod all about his life. What annoyed him was the fact that Sherlock was obviously distressing himself over this strange man's sudden arrival and he really didn't want to have to deal with the emotional aftermath that was sure of come without some idea of what was happening.

"I don't!" Sherlock snapped back at him, twisting his head to look at him for a fraction of a second before staring back at the fireplace and whispered; "I haven't seen this man in well over nineteen years. I wasn't sure if he was still alive."

John knew he knew very little of how Sherlock's brilliant mind worked or what his seemingly underused heart felt, but there was no denying the sadness in Sherlock's voice as he spoke. Even John wasn't that blind.

Overwhelmed by a sudden concern for his friend he asked again. "What? What do mean by you weren't sure if he was still alive?"

Sherlock stayed quiet, his gaze solely focused on newspaper ashes and coal in the fireplace. When he did finally speak, his voice was hushed and there was a tone of defeat that John had never heard before.

"Contrary to popular belief, I may not declare my friendships in the way society deems correct but that does not mean I am unfriendly. Those who I regard my friends I keep closest to me, where I am sure they will be safe but…just as I wished to get closer to the Doctor he…left."

John felt his heart go out to the man before him and an inconsolable rage towards the Doctor. How dare he reduce Sherlock to this! Was he the man responsible for Sherlock's earlier failings? John had always assumed it had been down to bad parenting but did the Doctor have something to do with it?

But before John could question Sherlock any more, the living room door swung slowly open and both men adjusted themselves accordingly. John sat up straighter and Sherlock returned to his default setting – his face completely devoid of any emotion, as if his little emotional transgression never took place.

The Doctor walked in slowly, his eyes not exactly cast to the floor but not exactly looking at either man, either. Two pairs of eyes watched him, one cautiously, the other bitterly.

"I don't know why I've wasted so much time but I cannot waste any more." He lifted his gaze and stared straight at Sherlock, sending a shiver through the Detective's spine. "I want to offer you a gift, a sorry or a congratulations, which ever you prefer, but I…want you to accept it."

There was something in the Doctor's voice that said that with this there was no room for negotiation. Sherlock frowned and glanced quickly at John to ensure that he was just as confused as his blogger; which apparently he was as John didn't have a bloody clue what was going on either.

"A gift? What kind of gift?" Sherlock said, his heart thundering loudly in his chest as a slow smile spread across the Doctor's features, the familiar twinkle returning to his eyes.

"I thought you might want to say hello to your namesake."


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: WARNING: Jack is being Jack. You have been warned. Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter 5**

Jack hadn't seen Mycroft quite so adorably flustered and attempt to dress so quickly since the time they had, had sex in Mycroft's dormitory in Oxford and Sherlock had decided to make an impromptu visit the morning after.

Oh, and it was truly a sight to behold. The normally so composed human personification of elegance was reduced to flapping about his own office, shouting orders at everyone and the wall. Jack smirked in his seat as he watched this truly extraordinary spectacle unfold before him.

"How could this have happened?!" Mycroft said as he slipped his tie back around his neck.

"It already has." Jack replied, even though he knew the question he was answering was supposed to be rhetorical.

"I can't let them slip past security. I'll have UNIT there before the Doctor can blink!"

"Too late they're already gone."

"When I get my hands on him, I swear to any and every God that I will string him up!"

"You won't catch him." Jack knew there was an insufferable smirk on his face but he couldn't wait to see the look of pure fury cross Mycroft's features in less than four seconds…

Mycroft flung his office door open at an alarming speed, almost so hard that it nearly pulled the solid oak doors off its hinges. Just as he was about to spout orders to the woman outside – Athena, no, Anthea, that was when the realisation of what Jack had said finally hit home.

"_What?!_" He stormed back in, his eyes ablaze with absolute rage.

For a moment Jack was almost intimidated…that was until he got aroused by the sight of his former lover and (he was almost reluctant to admit) superior so deliciously flustered and enraged.

"_What did you say?_" Mycroft moved steadily towards Jack, his voice low and menacing. Jack, undaunted as ever, even dared to smirk as he said; "I said, you won't catch him, they are most probably already gone, if not then at least about to go."

"_And how could you possibly know that?_" He spat and moved so close to Jack that they were only inches apart.

A Cheshire-cat like grin spread across Jack's face as an animalistic lust propelled him forwards before their lips crashed furiously together.

'_Oh God…it's been too long…' _Jack thought to himself as he practically wedged his tongue between Mycroft's lips.

Mycroft resisted at first, he never had liked it when Jack surprised him in the most inappropriate of moments, but…his mind filled with the memories of the times they had spent together and…he'd missed it so much.

He opened his mouth and allowed Jack's tongue to slip through his lips. The American eagerly took advantage of this offer and explored everything Mycroft's mouth had to offer. Which, apparently, was quite a lot.

Mycroft, somewhat hesitantly, wrapped his arm around Jack's spine, whilst his other hand ran softly through the short brown spikes that tickled his palm wonderfully.

It was all superbly gentle and Jack couldn't deny that it was nice but he didn't honestly want nice, he wanted lustful out of their minds insane passion.

Deciding not to waste a moment longer, Jack groped Mycroft's arse, nails and all. Which he regretted seconds later as Mycroft yelped and pulled himself back, ending their kiss. Jack resisted the urge to growl as he panted.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Jack put his hand out to Mycroft, but when he saw Mycroft flinch he let his hand fall to his side. "Mycroft…it's alright if you're scared-" He began, in the hopes of soothing Mycroft but was cut off when Mycroft grabbed the lapels of his coat, crashed their lips back together pushing Jack back against the desk, pushing them both over until Mycroft straddled Jack. The only times their lips parted was when they gasped for breath, and in those pauses Mycroft spoke.

"I am…certainly…not scared…of you…_Captain._ But if you must know…I am much older now…therefore…_I…am…in…charge_."

Jack nearly, _nearly _climaxed from those words alone but he managed to compose himself…just. However, he did whine earnestly when Mycroft broke the kiss a second time but was happily rewarded when Mycroft started trailing kisses down Jack's neck.

He nipped the skin between Jack's collar bone and throat lightly, remembering the Captain did have a certain fondness for teeth. Oh dear Lord, Mycroft wanted more than anything to tear off his clothes (along with those of Jack's) and simply do the obscene and quite unthinkable on his office desk. The thought in the Government Official's mind brought colour to his cheeks (and admittedly, his trousers too) just thinking about it.

It felt brilliant to have the man who had caused him so much pain and so much pleasure, writhing almost pathetically under him. Apparently, the thought of committing a certain act that was almost sure to be treason pleased Jack too, if the straining bulge in the man's trousers was anything to go by. Which, Mycroft had to admit, was becoming more and more pleasing by the second.

But it was Jack's quite wanton moans which tipped the decision in favour of committing such a grievous sin.

Mycroft put his admirably dexterous fingers to good use by unbuttoning Jack's shirt swiftly, revealing the toned chest that he had so fondly remembered. A devilish grin spread across Mycroft's face before he determined it would probably be quite cruel if he were to turn his attention to Jack's chest for an (un)fair amount of time. Still, that wasn't going to stop him.

Jack had decided it would probably be in his best interest if he kept his hands away from Mycroft otherwise he might give into the impulse of wanting to hit the smug bastard for prolonging his delightful torture.

He couldn't stop the moan that escaped from his lips as Mycroft ran his nails down his chest and in honesty he didn't care. He was beyond the point of caring about anything apart from the rush of pleasure and pain that coursed through his veins. Bloody hell, he hadn't remembered Mycroft being _this _talented.

Jack's mind screamed at him to kick it up to the next level. Preferably the level where clothes were strewn across the floor and certain body parts met. And, he was fairly certain, having seen Mycroft's heavily aroused state, that he wanted the same thing.

Mycroft _wanted _to continue on with their endeavours but there was a slight problem with a lack of utilities, lack of comfort, lack of priv –

Mycroft stopped; halted in his tracks by the petrifying, horrifying, absolutely mortifying idea that perhaps in his fit of anger he had neglected to close the door…

_He had._

And a certain New Scotland Yard Detective Inspector was standing in the open doorway staring at them like a deer caught in the headlights. A file, a blue one (a case, Mycroft noted) was clutched so tightly to his chest that his knuckles had turned white.

Mycroft stared at the unexpected third party warily, trying to calculate how much dignity and professional pride he could claw back from this one and trying to assess how much damage had actually been done. Perhaps he could blackmail the Detective Inspector…?

It took Jack a few seconds to realise that Mycroft had in fact stopped lavishing his attention on him and was about to complain when he saw the look of almost absolute horror on his face as he looked towards the doorway. Jack's breath caught in his throat when he saw the man standing there. And the only rational thought his mind could come with was that Greg looked really sexy with grey hair.

When Greg had seen what the two men were doing he'd been so shocked that he simply couldn't move. It was like watching the weirdest porn film in the world; his first male lover and a man he had a slight ('slight' was an understatement) attraction to, getting off on the latter's desk.

It was hard to interpret whether Karma was deciding to give him a kick in the balls or cruelly stimulate them. Either way, Greg knew when he spoke, he sounded nothing like himself. His voice was a god-awful combination between aroused and scared, which he internally cringed at.

"J-Jack?"

The Captain under Mycroft shifted slightly and smiled as if he'd just seen Greg walking down the street and not having been caught trapped under the body of another man.

"Hello, Greg. Long time no see. _I like the silver._ Care to close the door and join us?"


	6. Chapter 6

_**Twenty-Seven Years Ago**_

"_Doctor?" Sherlock yawned, quickly pulling himself out from the under his sheets._

_The boy couldn't suppress a smile as he saw a familiar silhouette illuminated by the moonlight from the slit in his curtains. The figure turned around almost instantaneously; even though the room was in almost complete darkness, Sherlock could feel the smile on the Doctor's face._

"_Hello. Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up. How are you feeling?" Slow, deliberately quiet footsteps moved over Sherlock's bedside and one of the Doctor's soothingly cool hands reached out to the little boy's forehead._

"_You're still running a bit of a temperature." The Doctor said, trying to keep the concern from his voice. "What did the doctor say? And I don't mean me, I mean a proper qualified doctor of medicine."_

_Sherlock shrugged under the covers. "There hasn't been one."_

_He felt the Doctor tense as the small muscles in his hands twitched. "How long have you had this?"_

"_Five…yes, five days."_

_As soon as he had said the words, the Doctor's hand slipped from his forehead. Sherlock whimpered at the loss of contact, in a desperate attempt he reached out to the Doctor, clasping onto his coat sleeve._

_In five days, the only person who had come into his room was the cook to give him his meals and that had been it. Not even Mummy had come to check on him. He didn't honestly expect Father to. Sherlock knew Father didn't like him and was happiest when his youngest son was nowhere to be seen._

_Sherlock felt the mattress dip next to him and the Doctor's fingers ran through the boy's damp curls. "Shh…don't worry," The Doctor's calming tones sent waves of indescribable comfort through his chest that washed away the panic that had started to arise. He didn't want to be alone, not again._

_As if he had read the boy's mind, the Doctor assured him, "I'm not going anywhere. Are you cold?"_

_Sherlock nodded, suddenly overcome by shivers that racked his body. The Doctor rose and shook out his brown overcoat. He pulled the duvet covers off Sherlock and wrapped the coat over him before laying the duvet back on top._

"_I take it you'll be staying for a while?" Sherlock said through chattering teeth. _

"_I've got all the time in the universe. Now, squidge up."_

"_Doctor, 'squidge' isn't a word."_

"_It is now, now squidge over!" The Doctor punctuated the last word by pushing Sherlock's small form to the other side of the bed and lying down next to him. The Doctor tried to place his arm around Sherlock's head but the boy was rigid._

"_Look, you're supposed to put your head on my arm –"_

"_Why?" Sherlock all but whispered._

"_What do you mean 'why'? It's supposed to be comforting. Why –"_

"_Mummy doesn't like physical contact." _

_The Doctor physically jolted, what had struck him about the sentence wasn't the actual sentence but the way the nine-year-old boy had said it. He sounded old; too old._

"_Well, I'm not your mummy. Rest your head on my shoulder."_

_Almost reluctantly, the little boy did as he was told. The sound of the Doctor's steady breathing filled his ears, almost forcing him to relax. Then the Doctor began to talk._

"_What do you want to be, when you grow up?"_

"_Father wants me to be an engineer. He wanted Mycroft to work in the stock exchange because he has an extraordinary talent for storing facts. He doesn't seem to mind that Mycroft's been offered a position in the government."_

"_Yes, but what do _you _want to be?"_

_The boy remained quiet for a long time, so long that for a while the Doctor had thought he'd fallen asleep but a small sigh cut through the silence._

"_I want to be a detective like…_him._"_

"_What makes you think that you can't?"_

"_Father would not be pleased…what did you want to be? When you were young?"_

_The Doctor suppressed a smile. "What makes you think that I've grown up?"_

"_Well," Sherlock snorted. "Clearly you haven't. But, what were your ambitions as a child?"_

"_I dreamed of the stars…" The Doctor said wistfully. "Do you want to see what I dreamt?"_

_Before Sherlock could answer, the Doctor leapt out of bed and threw the curtains open; the room became illuminated with light from the clear night's sky. He pulled his blue torch – or as the Doctor called it his 'Sonic Screwdriver' out of his trouser pocket and a low buzzing echoed around the room._

_Seconds later, the room was lit up by whole constellations. Bright, beautiful shades of pink, purple, blue and green shone but it was the swirling silver stars and mesmerising clouds that lit up the little boy's eyes._

_The Doctor pointed to a dark green constellation travelling north from his bedroom window. "See that? That's the Judonias Constellation, it's over ten billion light-years away and it has some of the most beautiful scenery. Literally stunning! It is the Barbados of the universe. Oh! And you see the purple one? That's the Lacterian Galaxy, now, they have some of the greatest, and I mean greatest musicians in the universe, their rendition of Mozart's Piano Sonata No. 14 is astounding…"_

_The Doctor rambled on with nonsensical tales but the sound of the Doctor's voice was pleasing. The boy knew what the Doctor was saying made no sense – it was almost an intellectual fairy tale – but nevertheless, as he drifted off into the realm of dreams, there was a smile on his face._


End file.
